His Spare Watson
by englishtutor
Summary: In which Mary Watson fills in for an absent John as Sherlock's assistant on a case in Cornwall. Will she prove to be as invaluable as John? Or will she prove a hindrance, instead? Based on Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's story "The Adventure of the Devil's Foot".
1. Chapter 1

This story may be read alone, but would be better understood if read after my stories entitled "Mary", "One to Spare" and "Red-Handed". I've based this on Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's short story "The Adventure of the Devil's Foot"—quotes from his story are indicated by asterisks. My apologies to this great man for mangling his lovely plot to my own selfish ends.

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_I need an assistant. SH_

_You've confused your Watsons again. I'm the female one, remember? MW_

_John is not picking up. I need an assistant. SH_

_And I need to know this, why? MW_

_I have a case. I need an assistant. SH_

_John is keynote speaker at a Medical Conference this week, as you well know, you lovely idiot. MW_

_I know. You'll do. SH_

_Are you asking me to be John for you? MW_

_I need an assistant. SH_

_Why would you think I'd want to be a John-substitute? What's in it for me? MW_

_It could be dangerous. SH_

_ When and where? MW_

_Paddington Station. 07:06 a.m. Pack a bag. We're going to Cornwall. SH_

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_Return my wife alive and undamaged or I'll know the reason why! JW_

Sherlock read and re-read this text from John as the train pulled out of Paddington Station and began its mind-numbing five-plus-hour trek to Penzance (with one wearying change in Newton Abbot). He hated train journeys, and one reason he required an assistant in this case was to keep him from going completely mad on the way to the crime scene. John had accepted this honor of being keynote speaker at a Medical Conference because he knew the exposure would help bring them more private casework with which to pay the bills. Sherlock wished John wouldn't worry about bills. He would really rather do without food and sundries if it meant John not being away for a week. He looked at Mary, sitting beside him by the window, reading an e-mail on her mobile and chuckling. He leaned over towards her to read what was amusing her so. She tilted it away from him and continued to scroll down. He tried to grab the phone away from her. She smacked his hand and scolded.

"Honestly, Sherlock, are you three years old?" she laughed.

"Do only three-year-olds get bored?" he demanded.

She shot him an inscrutable look. "All right, then: here." She handed him her phone, smirking. "Just remember that eavesdroppers hear no good about themselves."

The e-mail was from John. Sherlock read:

_Job Description for Sherlock's Assistant:_

_Administer medical help as needed._

_Provide expert medical opinions on crime scene as required._

So far, so good. Very straightforward. Sherlock approved.

_Serve as referee between Sherlock and any law enforcement authorities._

_Interview witnesses. DO NOT allow Sherlock to speak to anyone unsupervised._

_Reinterpret insulting comments as unfortunately misunderstood and potentially valuable observations._

Sherlock felt his hackles go up over these three statements; and yet, in all fairness, he had to admit to the real need for such interference. He read on:

_Try to prevent him taking off on his own. Wear running shoes to this end._

_Watch his back—I hope you remembered the you-know-what._

Sherlock raised an eyebrow over this last one. He knew John had been teaching Mary how to fire his (illegal) weapon. Was Mary proficient enough for it to be of use? He wondered.

_Try to get him to eat and sleep occasionally._

_Pay for everything. KEEP YOUR RECEIPTS!_

_Prevent his getting bored at all costs._

_Keep copious notes for blog entry._

He handed the phone back, sobered. He knew John was invaluable to him, but he'd never seen all that John did for him spelled out so succinctly before. Mary smiled affectionately. "Did he send you any instructions on my care and feeding?" she asked.

"Just one." He gave her his mobile and she read the text message, still on the screen. She chuckled.

"Don't worry, sweetheart, I won't let him hurt you," she said, patting his arm reassuringly. Then she added thoughtfully, "Of course, if I'm dead, I can't do anything to stop him killing you. I suppose it's in your own best interests to keep me alive." Her dimples deepened sweetly.

Sherlock frowned. He had never felt responsible for anyone else's safety before-not even John's. He was prepared to do anything he had to in order to prevent John being hurt, but his friend was so much more proficient in protecting himself than Sherlock was that it rarely was an issue. In fact, there were those who considered John to be Sherlock's personal bodyguard as well as personal physician and personal biographer. Now Sherlock looked sidelong at Mary and wondered if she would, in fact, be a sufficient substitute for her husband. She was a good doctor and would be a good note-taker for the blog; she could undoubtedly intervene in any verbal squabbles with others. But physically, he wondered if she was right for the job. She was a good inch shorter than John, and slightly built. He thought that if she were in a wrestling match with a newborn kitten, the outcome might be dubious.

The odd thing was, this worried him. He really didn't want anything bad to happen to Mary. At first, when John started dating Mary, Sherlock had just thought of her as an extension of John—as if John had inexplicably elected to grow a second head. Sherlock respected John enough to accept his bizarre decision and incorporated this new development into his life. But soon, Mary had asserted herself in his mind as an important individual in her own right. Sherlock knew exactly when this had happened: when he had accidentally stabbed John in the back, Mary- instead of becoming angry or hysterical-had calmly taken care of Sherlock. She understood how devastated he was, and put her own feelings aside to help him deal with the situation. Sherlock had come to love John as the only person who had troubled himself to understand him; now Mary had also proven herself to be such a friend. Sherlock would do anything for a friend who truly tried to understand him. It made him feel a heavy weight of responsibility for her safety—a new feeling for him.

Mary had finished writing her e-mail in response to John's list. "Okay, now, tell me about this case," she said.

"Three siblings, alone in a room, poisoned by means unknown. The sister is dead. The two brothers are comatose. A third brother swears he left them alive and well, perfectly normal, at half past ten the night before. They were found this way at eight in the morning, still sitting precisely as they were when the brother left."

"No drugs in their systems?"

"No known drugs were discernible."

"So, the police must suspect the third brother, yeah?"

"Of course. But with no cause of death and no motive, they can't make an arrest. And it is always a mistake, before gathering all the facts, to draw any sort of conclusions prematurely."

"Because one tends to see only the facts that substantiate one's theory, and ignore those that won't support it," Mary concluded.

Sherlock was surprised into smiling. "John's been teaching you my methods," he commented. A little muscle in Mary's cheek twitched, a sure sign that she was irritated. Sherlock was puzzled. "What?"

Mary sighed. "No, John has NOT been 'teaching' me anything. First of all, John is not the only intelligent non-genius on earth, you realize! I am hardly a drooling idiot."

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, but she held up the index finger of her right hand, and somehow this rendered him incapable of speech. "Second of all, John and I do not spend our free time talking about you, or your methods, or The Work, or crime, or anything whatever to do with you."

A burning question swelled within Sherlock's chest, bursting to be asked, but he dared not speak until Mary lowered her threatening finger. What else of interest could two people talk about, other than The Work? "What DO you talk about, then?" he demanded when at last she allowed him to respond.

This dispelled her irritation, and she laughed at him fondly. "You're so cute," she chuckled.

She spent the rest of the trip trying to keep him occupied with deducing their fellow travelers (quietly!); encouraging him to describe his latest experiments; reading and laughing about comments on John's blog; beguiling him with sandwiches and biscuits for lunch. She also had to deflect four separate admirers (three male, one female) who tried to foist their attentions upon her and two passersby who obviously tried to grope her on their way down the aisle while trying to make it seem like an accident. She fended the intruders off with grace and good humor; but their impertinence annoyed Sherlock more than he could have imagined. Why should an intelligent, compassionate young woman like Mary have to deal with such impudence? Clearly none of these shameless idiots were worth a second of her time. Sherlock was beginning to see that protecting Mary might consist of more than simply deflecting bullets and preventing her being kidnapped by mad bombers.

He remembered that John had once given a man a thorough thrashing for insulting Mary with lewd suggestions and wandering hands. Would she expect Sherlock to defend her in this way? She seemed to be dealing with things perfectly well on her own, without a show of violence. Sherlock sighed. This friendship lark was more difficult to navigate with Mary than with John. He hoped that protecting Mary would not prove a distraction to solving this case.


	2. Chapter 2

At the Penzance station, Sherlock had really intended to help with the luggage. He really had. But as they walked out onto the platform, he noticed a placard with his name on it and his feet just started walking in that direction, inadvertently leaving Mary to deal with the luggage on her own. The placard was held by a young PC, complete with uniform, standing by a patrol car (much to Sherlock's chagrin); 20 or 21 years of age; recently graduated; still lived with his mother; had two cats; smoked too much, tried to hide it from said Mum; overly-enthusiastic fanboy. This insufferable child introduced himself (Sherlock could not be bothered to remember what he said) and blathered on and on about how honored he was to meet his idol. Sherlock tuned it all out and just waited for Mary to come and deal with the boy for him. He was thankful to John for many reasons, to be sure, but Sherlock would never forgive the man for making him famous. It was so tedious.

Mary hauled their two cases up to the patrol car, that little muscle in her usually patient face twitching. "I'm your doctor, not your bell boy," she hissed at him under her breath and dropping his bag on his foot. "Lazy git!"

"My associate, Dr. Watson," Sherlock presented her to the PC grandly, hoping to deflect her annoyance into proper channels. It was the boy's fault for distracting him, after all.

"Dr. Watson! We weren't expecting you to come, too! I'm so chuffed to meet you! I'm your biggest fan! Alec Gates, my name is," the young man practically swooned.

"Um, thank you." Mary offered her hand, and he held it much too long for manners.

"I admit, I always thought the famous Dr. Watson was a man," Alec said breathlessly. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I always thought that, as well," he muttered sarcastically.

Mary opened her mouth to explain, but the hyperactive PC was off, shoving their cases into the backseat of the patrol car and then opening the front passenger door with a dramatic swoop, gesturing Mary inside. She glanced at Sherlock, who was too amused to interfere, and gracefully slid inside. This left the driver's side rear seat for Sherlock to fold his long legs into; but the discomfort was worth the show.

Alec flung himself into the driver's seat and they were off. "I'm to take you to the morgue in Helston first, and then on to the crime scene. The witnesses are meeting us there at 16:00. Dr. Watson! I read your blog all the time! I've got all the cases memorized. I've commented more often than any other follower of yours. Perhaps you remember me: I comment under 'numberonefan'."

Mary hid a smile. "Yes, I do remember you, in fact. I'm glad you enjoy the blog. But really. . . ."

"The inspector took the liberty of renting a cottage on Poldhu Bay for Mr. Holmes. It's a one bedroom—I hope that's all right. We weren't expecting you, Doctor, like I said. I suppose other arrangements can be made."

"I'm sure we can work things out, dear," Mary said impatiently. Sherlock was impressed with the condescending way in which she pronounced the word "dear". Strong men would be stung by it. Lesser men would be utterly cowed. The young PC was oblivious.

"I was thinking, maybe you'd like to go to dinner with me tonight, and, you know, talk and stuff," the idiot child continued. "I'd really like a chance to get to know you better."

"Sorry, I really can't, Mr. Gates." Mary waved her left hand in an emphatic gesture, giving the boy every opportunity to view her wedding ring. He could not or would not see it. He also would not give up.

"You can call me Alec," he said generously. "Hey, I never caught your first name."

"Didn't you? And I thought you were a great fan of my blog?" she said superciliously, with another grand sweep of her left hand. She had clearly had enough of this nonsense.

"Well, I assume that's a pen name, seeing as you're a girl."

A girl! Sherlock smirked. Mary was so out of this boy's league—classier, more mature, and infinitely more intelligent.

Alec continued to prove his cluelessness. "If you can't have dinner tonight, maybe we can have coffee in the morning. I never thought I'd meet such a pretty detective."

"You should meet my husband. He's even prettier than I am," Mary replied.

Sherlock was amused to see the boy visibly deflate. "Your husband?"

"My husband. John Watson."

The boy was covered in disappointment. "You're not the real Dr. Watson?" he asked, heartbroken.

"I am one of the Doctors Watson," Mary assured him gently. "I _have_ been trying to tell you that all along."

To his credit, the boy took it well. "I apologize for the misunderstanding," he said humbly. "I've just been so . . . you know . . . about meeting you, I mean. I got carried away."

"All forgotten. Let's just go on from here, shall we, Alec? My name is Mary, by the way. And you may call that fellow behind you Sherlock."

Suddenly Alec remembered that he had the famous Sherlock Holmes in his patrol car. He began to fire off questions about old cases, but fortunately for them all he did not seem to require answers. His soliloquy lasted the rest of the way to Helston.

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The deceased, Brenda Tregannis-Sterndale, had been a beautiful woman verging on middle age. Her dark, clear-cut face was handsome, even in death, but there lingered upon it something of that convulsion of horror which had been her last emotion.* Sherlock knew that expression well: the distress of trying desperately to draw a breath into uncooperative lungs.

"Her airways were not obstructed in any way?" he asked, and was assured by the pathologist that they were not.

"Lungs are clear, also. No known drugs in her system, either. Not in her digestive tract, not in her nose or throat. No hypodermic marks anywhere," the pathologist continued, as Sherlock studied the body in silence. He motioned to Mary to give her assessment. She did a quick exam and sighed.

"I don't know, Sherlock. She obviously died of asphyxiation, but I can't tell why. There's no bruising around the nose and mouth, no marks of strangulation, no sign of a physical struggle. How she let herself smother without moving from her chair is beyond me. Most people would have flung themselves about madly, trying to breathe."

"Maybe someone sucked all the air out of the room," Alec Gates suggested.

"Don't try to think, PC. It's a pointless exercise," Sherlock snapped.

Mary put a hand on his arm. "Manners, Sherlock," she murmured. To Alec she said, "He needs silence to work at his best. Don't take it personally."

Anyone who had ever read John's blog was aware of Sherlock's eccentricities. Alec nodded sagely. He was seeing a great man at work. It was an honor to be cut down by Sherlock Holmes.

"This is useless. Take us to the scene of the crime, PC," Sherlock said at last, accepting a copy of the official autopsy report.

He fairly flew out of the room, but stopped abruptly at the sight of a distinguished-looking, middle-aged gentleman who sat disconsolately on a plastic chair down the hallway. "Who is that?" he demanded.

Alec looked startled. "That's Mr. Sterndale! I thought he was in South Africa," he said exclaimed quietly. "I guess the Inspector got hold of him before he took off. The deceased's husband," he added by way of explanation. "He was in London the night she died, waiting for his flight from Heathrow yesterday. He imports cultural novelties. Sells 'em to rich folk. Quite a market for third world junk, I think."

Sherlock eyed Mr. Sterndale carefully but did not bother to approach him. Everything he needed to know was there in the cut of the man's suit, the state of his shoes, and his haircut. His business was adequate, but he depended on his wife's money for little luxuries; he'd had an affair—no, many affairs—not serious; heavy cigar smoker; came to the morgue straight from the train station. "He hasn't been home since he arrived from London," he concluded. "He's of little use to us at this point in time. Let's go."

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Tredannick Wollas, a small hamlet near Poldhu Bay, was home to a few hundred permanent residents and a large number of vacation cottages which could be rented by the day, week, month, or season. Formerly a mining town, many of the inhabitants of the area now depended on tourism for their living since the last mine was closed in the late 1990's.

The family of the deceased were among those in the tourist trade. Brenda Tregannis-Sterndale and her three brothers owned a good deal of real estate in the Lizard Peninsula, including a resort hotel and a great many individual rental cottages, both bed-and-breakfast and self-catering. It was at one of these rental cottages that the sister had died and the two brothers had sunk into comas overnight.

Present at this cottage, awaiting Sherlock's arrival on a spacious front porch, were Inspector Parker of the local police; Dr. Richards, the Tregannis' attending physician; Mrs. Porter, head of the cleaning crew for the rental properties; the local vicar, a Mr. Roundhay; and Mortimer Tregannis, the last remaining conscious member of his family.

"Mr. Holmes. Thank you for coming to our aid," Inspector Parker began, shaking Sherlock's hand. "And Dr. Watson. We weren't expecting you. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"This is a most extraordinary and tragic affair, Mr. Holmes," the little vicar added. "In all England, you are the one man we need."*

Sherlock despised niceties. "Clearly, since you have both had this story second-hand, perhaps Mr. Tregannis should do the honor of telling me what happened,"* he said impatiently.

"Manners," Mary breathed for only Sherlock to hear. "What Sherlock means is, he would like to get started as quickly as possible," she told those gathered.

"Of course, we agree," Inspector Parker said genially, and Mr. Tregannis leaned forward in his chair.

"I. . . I hardly know how to start," he stammered, his face marked with grief.

"I suggest, at the beginning. For example, what were you all doing here when clearly none of you lives here? This is a rental cottage."

Tregannis nodded. "Yes, it's one of the properties we own. Our parents were deeply invested in real estate, Mr. Holmes, and when they died they left all of their properties to the four of us. Together, we have turned them into a decent living. Each of us live on site of one of our investments. George lives at the resort hotel. Owen lives by our rental cottages in Helston. I keep our properties at Mullion Cove. Brenda and her husband live here. We have six cottages in the Tredannick Wollas area. Of course, we see each other frequently—Lizard Peninsula isn't huge-but every three months, we get together in one of our properties and talk business and play cards and catch up with each other. We are a close family. It was Brenda's turn to host this time," Tregannis' voice broke. "I should have stayed here with them, but I was tired and wanted to sleep in my own bed. I left them at about 22:30. They were playing cards and laughing." His voice trailed off.

"Show me," Sherlock said abruptly. Mary nudged him. "Please show me where the tragedy took place, Inspector," he amended, scowling at her.

It was a cozy sitting room of a four bedroom cottage, very roomy and comfortably appointed. Chairs and a sofa made a conversation area around the fireplace on one side, and a card table with four chairs around it stood on the other. The chairs had been pushed back, but otherwise the Inspector assured Sherlock that nothing had been touched. The playing cards still lay on the table as if the family had been interrupted in the middle of a game. The windows in the room were shut, but the curtains still open. The lights were still on, and the fireplace doors open, although the fire had long died out.

"Who found the bodies?" Sherlock demanded. Mrs. Porter stepped forward. "I did, Mr. Holmes. I came by to get started on the cleaning. This cottage was to be rented by another family yesterday. We have a great turn-over of guests in this area, and many who return year after year. We are very popular establishment."

Sherlock waved popularity away impatiently. "Yes, yes, but what did you SEE? How were the bodies situated when you found them?"

Mrs. Porter walked around the card table, touching the chairs. "Brenda here, George here, and Owen here. They were slumped over as if they just fallen asleep where they sat. I was that upset, I passed right out on the floor when I saw them. I felt I couldn't breathe properly. When I came back to myself, I called Mortimer immediately, and Doctor Richards. I didn't touch anything."

Mr. Tregannis nodded, "I came over as fast as I could. The doctor and I arrived at nearly the same time. They were sitting exactly as they were when I left them. It was . . . horrifying! Dreadful!"

"I sent for an ambulance immediately," Dr. Richards added. "There was nothing I could do for them, here."

"Could the comas be caused by severe hypoxia?" Mary asked.

"Certainly. All the symptoms are consistent with hypoxia," Dr. Richards nodded thoughtfully. "But how were they deprived of oxygen? There are no signs of choking or drugs of any kind."

Sherlock steepled his hands and stood in silent thought. His eyes roamed the room, taking in every detail. Finally he asked, "Your family were in good spirits when you left them?"

"Never better."

"You aren't aware of their being nervous or apprehensive about anything or anyone? They showed no apprehension of coming danger?* They had no worries about the future whatsoever?"

"None."

Sherlock picked up some papers on the end table near the sofa. "And yet, here are some business papers that show your properties in Mullion Cove are losing money. Apparently you have been mishandling the accounts and owe money to some questionable people, Mr. Tregannis. Your excessive drinking caused you to make poor decisions, perhaps?"

Mr. Tregannis gasped. "How could you tell all this from those papers?"

Sherlock snorted derisively. "Please," he said snidely. "So you argued and finally left them in a huff. Did they threaten to take your share of the properties away from you?"

Mr. Tregannis paled and sat down heavily. "No, no, it wasn't like that," he said faintly.

The little vicar stepped up then. "You must understand, Mr. Holmes. Mr. Tregannis is under treatment for his . . . problem. He's been through rehabilitation, and I am presently seeing him every day to help him continue to improve. He hasn't had a drink in months."

"They were upset," Mr. Tregannis admitted. "I had made a bungle of it, I admit. I had hidden my failures from them for some time, and they were unhappy to learn the truth. And I was ashamed. I left because I could not face them. But they were giving me another chance. We were putting together a recovery plan."

"Hmm," Sherlock looked the man up and down thoughtfully. Then he swooped down at the fireplace and sniffed and poked the ashes. "You had a fire here last night."

"Yes, the night was cool and damp."

"And you used all the wood in your log carrier," he indicated the empty canvas carrier on the floor beside the hearth.

"Yes, Owen put on the last of the logs just as I was leaving."

Sherlock sighed. "I need a pack of cigarettes," he muttered to himself. "No, I need three." Aloud he pronounced, "Dr. Watson and I would like to go on to our accommodations, if you would be so kind, PC. I need to think."

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Their cottage was much smaller than the one in which the Tregannis family tragedy had taken place. Sherlock frowned. One bedroom, one combination sitting room and kitchen, one loo. It was fine for him, but what about Mary?

Mary seemed perfectly happy. "This is adorable!" she exclaimed. The small kitchen was stocked with a few foodstuffs for their use, and she crowed with happiness when she found the tea. "Oh, this will be very nice!" she assured Alec. "We'll be quite comfortable here."

It took several minutes to persuade the overly-helpful PC to leave. By that time, dusk was falling. "I taking a bath straightaway," Mary announced. "I feel entirely filthy. I'll fix our dinner after."

"Take your time. I need quiet to think," Sherlock said tersely. He went out into the little garden in front of the cottage and sat on a bench, staring out into the gathering gloom on the moors.

But it was not to be. A figure approached down the lane, revealing itself to be the gentleman they had seen in Helston earlier that day. Sherlock rose to meet him.

"Mr. Sterndale," he intoned.

"Mr. Holmes," the man replied. He had a cigar in his mouth, and he offered Sherlock one. Sherlock lit up gratefully.

"I'm afraid my colleague will not approve," he commented wryly.

"Yes, the beautiful Dr. Watson," Mr. Sterndale said. "PC Gates was telling me about her. I am all agog to meet her."

Sherlock did not like the lascivious look in the man's eye as he said this, and he was curious. Why should he care if a man looked lustfully at Mary? This is what it feels like to have a sister, he concluded, and was grateful that he'd spent his life till now without one. He did not like this feeling—this protective instinct that rose up in him. It was annoying.

"Mrs. Watson is indisposed," he said dryly. "Have a seat out here, Mr. Sterndale, and tell me what brings you here."

"_Mrs._ Watson, eh?" the insufferable letcher grinned. "Looks after you, does she? Takes care of all your needs?"

"_Dr. _ Watson is generously committing her time here to helping solve the mystery of your wife's death, Mr. Sterndale," Sherlock said severely. "She and I could simply return to London if you feel this is not a noble cause."

Mr. Sterndale, although he did not look truly abashed, at least had the decency to pretend to look abashed. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Holmes, you are right, of course. My poor, poor Brenda. I came as soon as the vicar called me. A moment later and I would have been on the plane to South Africa."

"I understand you buy trinkets in third world countries to sell at exorbitant mark-up prices," Sherlock said, still irritated.

"Oh, yes, it's an interesting trade. It's amazing what people will pay for junk, if you advertise it just so."

"And you were in London the night of this tragedy?"

"Yes. I had a flight out of Heathrow early in the morning, so I spent the night in London. I took the first train back here as soon as I heard the news. I was hoping you could ease my mind by telling me if you have made any inroads into solving this mystery."

Sherlock puffed on the cigar for a moment. "I have not cleared my mind entirely on the subject, but I have every hope of reaching a conclusion very soon. It would be premature to say more."*

"Perhaps you would not mind telling me if your suspicions point in any particular direction?"*

"I can tell you nothing whatsoever."

"Then I am wasting my time, and yours," Mr. Sterndale sighed. He rose from the bench. "I suppose I will be seeing you and your Dr. Watson another time, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock watched him leave, smoking and thinking furiously. He needed to follow the man surreptitiously. But what should he do about Mary? John he would have dragged along with him—directly from his bath if need be. But he was not sure about Mary. He told himself that he did not have time to wait for her to dress—but the truth was, he was afraid she might be hurt and could not bring himself to take the risk. After five minutes went by, he rose and followed his quarry, silent as the night.

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Three hours later, he walked into their little cottage and realized he had made a grave error in judgment. Mary was furious. He could tell this even before she turned around to face him, and when she did turn around, he also turned around to go back out the door again.

"Stop right there!" Mary said sternly. He stopped, but did not turn around to face her. Mary never got angry with him, not really. This was new. He did not really want to know what Mary's wrath would be like.

"Where have you been? Why did you just swan off like that without a word? How am I supposed to watch your back if I don't have any idea where your back is?"

"You were in the bath. I didn't want to disturb you."

"Voices carry through doors, Sherlock! You could have told me you were going. You could have left a note. You could have sent a text. You turned your phone off! You left the gun on the bed! Are we working together, or not? Because I thought you needed an assistant," Mary was cooling off now, sitting in a chair and running her hand over her flushed face. He realized with a shock that she was not really angry at all, but afraid. It had never occurred to him that she would feel as responsible for his safety as he did about hers.

"I was following a suspect. I didn't have time to return to the cottage first. I had to turn my phone off in case a call should tip the man off that he was being followed. I'm sorry, Mary. I didn't mean to worry you."

"You should be," she huffed. "What on earth could I tell John if I lost you? What could I tell Mycroft?"

"I was thinking the same thing," Sherlock admitted. "I didn't take you with me because I was afraid of what John would do if anything happened to you."

Mary laughed suddenly, her good humor returning like the sun bursting through a stormcloud. "We're in the same boat, aren't we? If anything happens to one of us, John will kill the other. Either way, we're both dead. We're better off sticking together, don't you think? At least keep me in the loop, so I'll know what's going on, all right?"

Sherlock nodded and began making good on that promise at once by telling her about the visit by Mr. Sterndale. Mary listened as she heated up a tin of soup and cut sandwiches and heated the kettle.

"I followed him all the way to the cottage where his wife died. The curtains were still drawn aside, and I could see him examining the fireplace. Then he went home. I watched him sit and smoke cigars for a bit, but it seemed he was done for the night, so I came on back."

Mary set a bowl of soup, a sandwich, and a cup of tea in front of him and thoughtfully bit into a sandwich herself. "Why the fireplace? They were sitting at the table on the other side of the room."

"Why did Brenda die and not her brothers? She was closer to the fire than they were. That is the only difference in their situations."

"There was something burning in the fireplace that caused this? What? And how did it get there?"

Sherlock shook his head. He needed to order his thoughts. He drank the tea, pushed the food away untasted, and settled on the couch to meditate, his hands steepled beneath his chin. He never noticed when Mary went to bed.

The sun was just rising when they both were aroused by the excited voice of the vicar outside, calling to them. "Mr. Holmes! Dr. Watson! My poor parish is devil-ridden! Satan himself is lose in it!* There's been another death! Mortimer Tregannis has died in the night!"


	3. Chapter 3

As previously noted, this is a take on ACD's story "The Adventure of the Devil's Foot". All the best lines are his, and are marked with asterisks.

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_After 24 hours of nonstop Sherlock, if I didn't admire your patience and fortitude before, I certainly do now, Captain. MW_

_How are things going? JW_

_We're on our way to a second murder scene, so, you know, it's Christmas! MW_

_I miss all the good murders. This conference is unbearably dull. JW_

_We'll have to start taking turns after this. I kind of like being you. MW_

_We'll see about that, if you come home safely. JW_

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Mr. Roundhay, the vicar, drove them in his car to the cottage in Mullion Cove, and Sherlock and Mary stepped out into the sunshine of lovely, airy garden. In contrast, the atmosphere of the sitting room was of a horrible and depressing stuffiness.* Inspector Parker and Dr. Richards were already there and had opened a window, or the air would have been completely intolerable. The dead man was sitting in a chair still wearing the same clothes from the day before. An empty bottle of whiskey was on the floor at his feet, an empty glass on the table at his side, along with an ashtray heaped with ashes and the stub of a cigar.

Mary examined Mortimer Tregannis' face and hands carefully. "It's the same as the others. Asphyxiation with no apparent cause. And how he could just sit there, unmoving, as he slowly smothered I just can't fathom. It's almost like carbon monoxide poisoning, but there would have to be—oh, over 10,000 parts per million in this room to have this kind of effect so quickly."

"I agree," Dr. Richards said. "I'm sure the autopsy will show the same amount of nothing that his sister's did—no drugs in the system, except the alcohol, of course."

"Perhaps he had already passed out from drink, before he smothered from whatever it is that killed him," the Inspector suggested.

"And, why, oh, why did he start drinking again?" Mr. Roundhay mourned. "He was doing so well! I checked here every day to make sure he didn't have any bottles hidden away. I should not have let him come home alone last night. I knew he was in a bad state."

Sherlock was listening, but at the same time was roaming all over the room. He quickly finished his examination of the sitting room and dashed into other parts of the house, out through the French window into the garden, and back inside again. Then he pulled an evidence bag out of his pocket and put the cigar end inside.

"Mr. Roundhay, did Tregannis smoke cigars?" he spoke at last.

"No, he was never a smoker. Not cigars, nor cigarettes, nor pipe."

"Inspector, I assume you have thoroughly checked Mr. Sterndale's alibi and are satisfied that he was actually in London on the night of wife's death?" he demanded abruptly.

"Of course," Inspector Parker nodded.

"Well, he was HERE, last night, by the footprints in the garden. He was also in MY garden last night, and the prints are the same. You can compare them yourself if you like." Sherlock's voice was brusque, the words tumbling out almost faster than his audience could listen. "You should bring him in for questioning immediately, before he decides to go on to South Africa after all. You should also have the ashes in this tray sent out to a lab for analysis, as well as the ashes in the fireplace in the cottage at Tredannick Wollas. As soon as you can get a warrant, you should search his house. And find witnesses who will swear that Brenda Tregannis-Sterndale was fed up with his lechery and was about to divorce him."

No one moved. Finally Dr. Richards said, "But why? We know Leon Sterndale was nowhere near here during the other . . . incident."

"You people invited me here because you needed my expertise! Are you going to argue with me while a murderer escapes, or do as I suggest?" Sherlock exclaimed, indignant and rather outraged at being questioned. He intended to go on, but then Mary cleared her throat quietly. She was across the room from Sherlock and could not speak to him without the others hearing, but she held up that insidious right index finger and he found himself suddenly rendered mute.

"What Sherlock means to say," Mary spoke gently into the silence that had followed Sherlock's tirade, "is that he's had a lot of experience in cases like this and he is certain he is correct in his assessment. It would be easier to find Mr. Sterndale now and ask him a few questions than it would be to wait and try to find him later, when he's had a chance to disappear."

Inspector Parker shook his head as if trying to shake off a sudden headache. "As you say, we did invite you here because you have a reputation of being right. And I admit, Sterndale has a motive—there were rumors of divorce, and control of all the family's property will come to him now. We'll do as you ask, but if you can't explain how he could be in two places at once, I can't hold him."

Sherlock dismissed trivial explanations with a regal wave of his hand. "Fine, fine. Now we'll need a ride back to our cottage immediately. And send someone to get us when you've brought Sterndale in," Sherlock commanded sharply, and rushed towards the door.

"Thank you, Inspector," Mary sighed. "I apologize for Sherlock's manners, gentleman. I'm trying to house-train him, but I'm afraid he needs more work."

"Your charm more than makes up for it, Dr. Watson," Dr. Richards smiled generously. "I can give you two a ride back. The vicar here needs to stay with his parishioner."

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_What will you do to me if I kill him myself? MW_

_I'll help you build a case for self-defense. It shouldn't be a problem. JW_

_I've changed my mind about taking turns. After this, he's all yours. MW_

_If you kill him, he won't be anybody's. Stick with him, it'll get better. JW_

_I miss you, Captain. MW_

_I miss you, too. JW_

While Mary texted her husband, Sherlock spent his time on the ride back to their cottage looking up African tribal rituals on the internet. "Oh! This could be it. Of course, I'll have to try it out to be sure."

"Try what out?" Mary asked. They had arrived, and she thanked Dr. Richards profusely as she got out of the car. Sherlock said nothing as he unfolded himself from the back seat and wandered into the cottage.

"Try what out?" Mary repeated, following him inside.

"What do you think, Mary? What do both crime scenes have in common? Something was burned, each time. Remember what that housekeeper woman said happened when she arrived at the cottage that morning?"

"Mrs. Porter? She said she fainted with shock when she discovered the family."

"What if it wasn't shock? The windows and the door were shut until she arrived and opened them. Whatever was in the air in that room had lingered, not potent enough to harm her anymore, but enough to make her pass out."

"Mortimer Tregannis' room was very stuffy and close. I wonder if we would have all passed out if the windows hadn't been opened immediately." Mary mused. "What does the stuff do, Sherlock? Do you know what it is?"

"I have an idea, but I need to be certain. Sending this to a lab to be analyzed could take days. I need to test this theory out now." Sherlock produced the cigar stub from his pocket. "Go outside, Mary. You can watch this through the window."

"Are you mad? You don't know what's in that cigar that killed Mortimer Tregannis or what it might do to you! Don't you dare light that, Sherlock, I mean it!"

Sherlock sighed impatiently. "You heard the inspector. They can't hold Sterndale without evidence. I can prove he killed his wife and brother-in-law in a few minutes; or I can sit around twiddling my thumbs and let a murderer leave the country while we wait for a lab to provide the proof we need."

Mary stood still, her mind churning, then sank into a chair wearily. "We need to take safety precautions, then," she groaned. "I can't believe I'm going along with this. I'm as mad as you are."

"Go on outside, Mary. What would John say to me if I let you stay while I test this?" Sherlock insisted sternly.

"If John were here instead of me, would he go cower outside?" Mary demanded. "Here, I'll open all the windows and the door. Whatever this stuff is, it won't be as potent with fresh air flowing through the room." She began to open the windows as Sherlock found a bowl in the kitchen, set it on an end table in the middle of the room, and put the cigar stub in it. He pulled out a lighter.

"Ready?" he asked. Mary nodded, and he touched the lighter's flame to the cigar end. Mary was standing by one of the open windows, while he remained in the chair by the end table beside the now smoking bowl. Immediately the oddest sensation seized him. He felt as if all the air had been sucked out of the room. He tried desperately to pull air into his lungs, but it was as if his diaphragm was paralyzed. He couldn't move. Distantly, he could hear Mary call his name, but she seemed miles and miles away. His vision reduced to a spot, then was altogether gone.

Suddenly he felt hands jerk him out of his chair. He could not find his feet, but the insistent hands pulled him by the arms across the floor and out the open door. An eternity later, he found he was lying on the grass in the garden, gasping and wheezing, with Mary collapsed by his side panting. Slowly the hellish cloud lifted from his mind and rose like the mists from a landscape, until peace and reason had returned.*

"Are you all right?" he demanded hoarsely of Mary when he was able to speak again.

She nodded, unable to sit up. "Good lord, Sherlock, next time you need rescuing, have the consideration to shrink to a manageable size first, won't you?"

"That did not go quite as I had planned. I'm sorry, Mary, that was . . . unjustifiable. I never imagined the effect would be so sudden and so severe.* I'd never have risked your life if I'd known what would happen."

"I'd never have let you risk yours, if I'd known," she returned.

Sherlock looked at his small companion, marveling. "How did you do it? I must weigh twice what you do."

Mary sat up and snorted a rueful laugh. "It's the Watson family business, saving your life. I just did my job. Anyway, I'm stronger than I look." She smiled at him. "You do know, don't you, that John and I consider it a privilege to help you in The Work?"

Sherlock smiled uncomfortably back. He rose to his feet, feeling unsteady and weak. "Thank you," he murmured, almost too quietly to be heard.

Mary stood and brushed herself off. "Well, no harm done after all. Did we learn what we needed to learn? Are we done experimenting with deadly whatevers?"

Sherlock nodded. "As soon as the police bring Sterndale in, we'll be ready for him."

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It was not long before PC Alec Gates arrived in his patrol car to take them to the county police headquarters, where Leon Sterndale awaited them. Sterndale was a very unhappy man.

"I am at a loss to know what you can possibly have to say that could in any way involve me in this affair," he said, aggrieved.

"Then I will tell you," Sherlock replied. "You are a hunter of rare and curious oddities from Africa, which you import and sell."

"Yes, yes, that is no secret," Sterndale huffed.

"After you came to talk with me yesterday, you returned to the scene of your wife's murder and investigated the fireplace."

Sterndale shot him a daggered look. "How do you know that?"

"I followed you."

Sterndale started. "I saw no one!" he barked.

Sherlock smirked. "That is what you may expect to see when I follow you.* Now why would you be interested in the fireplace? Perhaps something was burned in that fireplace that produced a toxic atmosphere, something that prevented oxygenation of the blood, much like carbon monoxide poisoning. It would be simple enough to place a foreign substance into the hollow of a log, and place that log in a log carrier which you knew was to be used at the cottage that night. Were you concerned that some of the poison remained in the ashes, unburned?"

"He sucked all the air out of the room, just like I said," Alec whispered gleefully. He was beside himself with joy at having contributed to the solution of the mystery.

"You are inventing fairy tales, Mr. Holmes," Sterndale snapped, red-faced. "Inspector, must I sit here and listen to this nonsense?"

But Inspector Parker was intrigued. "Go on, Mr. Holmes," he encouraged.

"Unfortunately for you, Mr. Sterndale, one of the brothers left the house before the affected log was placed in the fire. He escaped your machinations. You went to his home last night, took advantage of his emotional state by encouraging him to give in to his great weakness, and once he was drunk, you lit your cigar and left it burning by his chair, with the smoke rising directly into his face. You had filled your cigar with your toxin, of course. You needn't deny it, we have tested the stub that was left."

"I don't know what you are talking about," Sterndale growled. "What possible motive could I have for trying to kill off my wife and her family?"

Inspector Parker laughed shortly. "Mr. Sterndale, everyone knows your wife was talking about divorcing you. The gossip's all over the Peninsula. She'd put up with your philandering long enough. With her dead, you stand to inherit all her properties, and those of her brothers if George and Owen don't recover."

Sherlock held up his mobile, the information he'd obtained on the screen. "_Radix pedis diaboli_. Devil's-foot root. An ordeal poison used by medicine men in West Africa.* You discovered it on one of your hunting trips and smuggled it into the country. Inspector, if you search his house, I'm certain you will discover more of it."

But Leon Sterndale was defeated. He confessed all, a broken man.

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"One realized the red-hot energy which underlay Holmes' phlegmatic exterior when one saw the sudden change which came over him from the moment that he entered that fatal apartment. In an instant, he was tense and alert, his eyes shining, his face set, his limbs quivering with eager activity. He was out on the lawn, in through the window, round the room, and up into the bedroom, for all the world like a dashing foxhound drawing a cover."*

Mary stopped reading and cast an admiring look at her husband. "This is good stuff, Captain. How you wrote this up out of my poor scribbles I can't imagine. It's as if you'd been there yourself."

"Rubbish!" Sherlock fairly shouted. "What does any of that have to do with the case? And I do NOT run about like a foxhound."

Mary chuckled. "A _dashing_ foxhound," she reminded him.

"It's what the public likes. It's called 'description'," said John with dignity. "It draws the readers in, makes them feel they are right there with you."

"I think it's lovely," Mary said loyally. She continued reading, "Then he rushed down the stair, out through the open window, threw himself upon his face on the lawn, sprang up and into the room once more, all with the energy of the hunter who is at the very heels of his quarry."*

Sherlock made a sound of disgust and stomped out of the room. "Description," he muttered under his breath. Then suddenly he stomped back in.

"Wait. Has she told you what happened after that?"

John kept his face carefully blank. "Why? Is there a certain incident you'd like to keep from me? An experiment gone awry, perhaps? A near-death experience, maybe?"

Sherlock looked chagrined. "You did tell him," he groaned.

Mary sparkled cheerily. "Did I brag that I singlehandedly dragged you out of a place of certain death? Why yes, I did. Did I want John to know how incredibly awesome I am? You bet I did!"

"For the record, I was already thoroughly convinced of your amazing awesomeness," John smiled. "And I already knew Sherlock was reckless and completely mad. No surprises here."

"No reprisals for nearly killing your wife, then?" Sherlock hedged.

"I didn't say that," John grinned wickedly. "When you least expect it—well, you just better watch out!"


End file.
